


The Nefarious and Vile Pleasantries

by Pancakes_With_No_Clean_Fryingpans



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: AU Fic, Both Nefarian and Skulduggery have issues, Canon compliant up till chapter 13 of the first book, Enemies to Friends, Lord Vile isn't who he was in the Books, Nefarian didn't kill Gordon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stephanie has to deal with them both, This won't affect the plot too crazily but it's worth mentioning, Well more people that aren't actively trying to murder each other at every chance they have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 15:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pancakes_With_No_Clean_Fryingpans/pseuds/Pancakes_With_No_Clean_Fryingpans
Summary: What if Nefarian hadn't been the one to kill Gordon Edgley like Skulduggery suspected?  What would the skeleton detective have done then? And who actually killed Stephanie's Uncle?





	1. A Dead Man

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies the first few chapters of this fic will be a bit repeatitive of the book. 
> 
> Please bare with me and enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> (Updates may be very sporadic in nature)

Gordon Edgley’s death came as a shock to everyone. One moment he was in his study, seven words into the twenty-fifth sentence of the final chapter of his new book and the darkness rained upon them, and the next he was dead.

He had been a close friend of a certain detective by the name of Skulduggery Pleasant. They’d met many years ago at a bar. Gordon had vomited on his shoes, Skulduggery had helped him out. It had been great. He had been a clever man and prone to a certain flavour of wit that Skulduggery delighted in. They were close. Closer than most people got to Skulduggery these days. Even as close as some had gotten to him when he was still alive.

Skulduggery, as it might be noted by the common observer, was no longer living in the strictest sense of the word. He had died nearly three centuries prior to Gordon under rather nasty circumstances. Fate, chance and some strange magical phenomenon had brought him back to the realm of those that could move and hold a conversation, regardless of this fact. Now a living skeleton; he stood at the edge of the graveyard wearing his clever disguise of a wig, some sunglasses and a scarf pulled up over his jaw.

The funeral was attended by Gordon’s family with a few acquaintances mixed in. Not many friends; Gordon had never been a well-liked figure in the publishing world. For although the books he wrote - tales of horror and magic and wonder - regularly reared their heads in the bestseller lists, he had a disquieting habit of insulting people without realising it, then laughing at their shock.

Skulduggery had politely decided to keep his distance from the gathering, deciding one dead person was enough for things to proceed. Besides, even with his clever disguise, a closer inspection would raise more questions than he felt like answering. After which there’d probably be some screaming, and he’d have some awkward phone calls to make. Best to avoid that whole scenario really.

Perched under the leaves of a large tree, he had been solemnly watching the ceremony play out, only to find he was being watched himself.

Stephanie, Gordon’s favourite niece, was staring at him. She was standing next to Gordon’s brother, crowded in with the other family members around the grave. Tall for a twelve-year-old, with dark eyes and hair, she blended in well with the mob of black mourning wear. He’d met her once before as a toddler; nearly a decade ago. Thankfully she couldn’t remember any of it. Taking her continued curiosity as a sign to leave, Skulduggery strode passed the headstones, still bundled up in his long tan coat and hat as he left the graveyard.

After the service finished, he was careful to take a back road up to his dead friend’s house; avoiding the little humpback bridge and thick woodland road that no doubt the rest of the funeral goers were having to navigate. As expected the heavy gates lay open for him, welcoming him onto the estate. The grounds of which were vast and the house itself was rather too big for Skulduggery’s tastes. Unsurprisingly, Gordon had purchased it specifically for the gruesome legends about its previous owners. Parking up the car, the sounds of polite conversations tittered out the house.

It was best not to intrude on them in their time of mourning.

Gordon’s family had never taken kindly to his strange choice of company. A a living Skeleton probably wouldn’t improve on that opinion.

Striding around the back of the house, the detective eyed the various windows before picking out one. Snapping his wrist towards the window, it somehow opened with a click. With the same action, this time aimed at the ground, he easily cleared the frame touching down inside with catlike grace. Snooping around the upper rooms, he eventually made it to Gordon’s office. Only to stop dead in his tracks.

Stephanie was in the room. She was gazing around at the books and the chair in which Gordon was said to have died. Staring at the empty spot where’d he found his friend smirking at some character or other’s demise on more than one occasion, the hollow lonely feeling in Skulduggery’s ribcage grew bigger.

“At least he died doing what he loved”, Skulduggery mused aloud, startling the girl. She spun to face him, eyes scanning his form rapidly.

“Yes”, Stephanie said. “At least there’s that.”

“You’re one of his nieces then? You’re not stealing anything, you’re not breaking anything, so I’d guess you’re Stephanie.” He said, acting like he’d only figure that out that second.

Stephanie nodded in reply, observing his strange appearance closely.

“Were you a friend of his?”, she asked.

“I was”, Skulduggery answered with a slight move of his head. “I’ve known him for years, met him outside a bar in New York when I was over there, back then he had just published his first novel.”

Those had been good times. They’d gotten into quite the bit of trouble together. The hollow feeling grew heavier in his chest.

“Are you a writer too?”, asked Stephanie.

“Me?” asked Skulduggery, being pulled from his reminiscing. “No, I wouldn’t know where to start. But I got to live out my writer’s fantasies through Gordon.”

“You had writer fantasies?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Then that would make me seem kind of odd, wouldn’t it?”

“Well,” She answered, “It would _help_.”

Feeling this conversation thread start to run dry, Skulduggery quickly changed the topic, using it as a chance to observe the room without moving his head as he talked. The room was clean, though not much had been moved when they had come to take the body away. There was no sign of anything obviously missing either.

“Gordon used to talk about you all the time, boast about his little niece. He was an individual of character, your uncle. It seems you are too.”

“You say that like you know me.”

 He didn’t know her, of course, but he did know Gordon. There was little doubt between how his friend had gone on about Stephanie and how she had presented herself thus far, that the pair were more similar than they had realised.

“Strong-willed, intelligent, sharp-tongued, doesn’t suffer fools gladly…remind you of anyone?”, the detective asked, a sad grin on his skull.

“Yes, Gordon.”

“Interesting,” he said, “Because those are the exact words he used to describe you.”

Checking the time on his pocket watch, he used the motion to put an end to the conversation.

“Good luck with whatever you decide to do with your life.”

 “Thank you,” She said, caught off guard. “You too.”

Smiling with the lips he didn’t have, he left her and quickly vanished out the way he’d come. His fall from the window was cushioned nicely by the air. Flicking the window closed behind him, the detective walked back around the building, clicked his car lock open and climbed in.

Skulduggery’s car was a 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of only 208 ever made, a car that housed a six-cylinder, 4.5-litre engine, and was retro-fitted with central locking, climate control, satellite navigation and a host of other modern conveniences. A fact he loved to share with anyone that asked.

Starting the engine, Skulduggery considered his friends death and the circumstances it had fallen under. The doctors had declared it a heart attack but there were many ways to cause death without leaving a mark on the victim. One, in particular, held the skeleton’s thoughts. Feeling an old anger simmer in his bones, Skulduggery put his foot down and pulled out of Gordon’s estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the fic, pleast leave me a comment.  
> Any on how to improve are particularlly welcome.


	2. And the man that killed him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again apologises for how close this is to the book. The later chapters will veer further away from the original material.
> 
> Either way; enjoy Serpine being his wonderful terrible self.

Gordon Edgley’s sudden death came as a shock to everyone – not least the man that had been planning it out carefully for months. Nefarian Serpine tried to smile politely as Vindick Leather, sat across from him, prattled on with the details. A heart attack. He died quite peacefully. It was obviously the mortal bastard’s time. Saved us having to kill him ourselves. etc. etc. blah blah blah. noise noise noise. Oh, dark gods, would they shut up already?

When the prattle was finally done; he thanked its source, finished his drink, paid and left the brightly lit café as quickly as decency would allow. He took brisk strides down the street, not bothering to fix how wooden his smile appeared, into an alley and out the other side towards a swish silver car. Getting in and letting the doors click shut, only then did Nefarian let the mask fall as a flurry of swears battled their way out of his throat.

Unfortunately for him, Gordon Edgley had been more than just a bestselling horror novelist. His ghoulish stories had had some basis of truth. Nothing too close mind, else Mr Edgley would have been long dead for some less than imagined slight from one of the figures who had inspired his stories. No, the truth lay elsewhere, the one consistent fact in all his written work.

Magic was real.

Nefarian knew this. He had known it for the last five centuries. He was in fact a mage himself and a powerful one at that, if he didn’t say so himself. He was also at that moment forehead down on the steering wheel of his car, repeating the same obscenity over and over again, as if the word would somehow kickstart his brain into action again. It didn’t. Letting the temper tantrum finally work its way out of his system, Nefarian dramatically slouched back against the car seat.

Mortals, or non-magic users he supposed they could be called, in general did not involve themselves with the magic community. Heck, the majority of them weren’t even aware there was a magic community to begin with! No thanks to centuries of careful hiding. Mr Edgley, again unfortunately, hadn’t been like that. Dragged into a world where he didn’t belong, the man had befriended that annoying detective and stuck his nose in where it shouldn’t have been.  Honestly it was a wonder he had lasted this long. Nefarian was sure someone somewhere might have considered the whole thing a tragic loss. But to be brutally honest, the only tragic loss he saw was that the stupid mortal had decided to kick the bucket without handing him over the key.

That wasn’t even taking into consideration how ‘natural’ his diagnosed heart attack had been. If magic was involved, then suddenly Nefarian might have a lot more to worry about than just tracking down the possession of a stubborn mortal. Not least including who would inherit that house of his, and there for the access point to a vital part of his scheme. Mr Edgley would have been not much of a challenge. The man was already in his forties, with no magic to his name and living alone with very few friends. True among those friends was a certain detective but Nefarian had bested the skeleton before and he could certainly do it again. However, whoever inherited his estate might not be such a pushover. Knowing Nefarian’s luck, it’d be a black belt master mixed martial artist with a knife throwing hobby.

Huffing dramatically, his fingers tapped out a pattern against his knee. The funeral had been today. Meaning that the Will reading would be happening at some point over the next few days. If he found out who was to inherit the house, he could alter his plan accordingly. Ah, that might work. Clicking his seatbelt into place, Nefarian formed a plan as he drove carefully back onto the road.

 

* * *

  
  


It hadn’t taken long to find out the law firm in charge of Mr Edgley’s will. Even less time to buy out the room next to it for the day. Mortals, so easily manipulated by money. Leant against the thin wall between the two rooms, a glass against his ear, Nefarian waited.

 Only a few people had been included in the will. Mr Edgley’s Brother, Fergus Edgley, and his noisy wife Beryl being the first to arrive had wasted no time in harassing the solicitor in charge. They did, however, stop briefly when Mr Gordon Edgley’s other brother, Desmond, arrived with his wife and daughter.

This group was much calmer and quieter. Personally, if Nefarian had to choose at this point who would get the house, he’d have to go for Desmond. Quiet mortals tended to be less aggressive in his experience, easier to handle, to bribe, to manipulate towards his goals.

“Now can we get started?” came the shrill voice of Beryl through the wall.

“We still have one more person to wait on,” said Mr Fedgewick apparently much to Fergus’ displeasure and Nefarian’s curiosity.

“Who?” Fergus demanded “There can’t be anyone else, we are the only siblings Gordon had. Who is it? It’s not some charity, is it? I’ve never trusted charities. They always want something from you.”

“It’s, it’s not a charity.” Mr Fedgewick said. “He did say, however, that he might be a little late.”

“Who said?” asked Desmond, as Nefarian leaned in closer to the wall, a bad feeling forming in his gut.

“A most unusual name, this,” said Mr Fedgewick, causing the uneasy feeling to grow. “It seems we are waiting on one Mr Skulduggery Pleasant.”

Nefarian’s blood turned to ice. He barely heard the confusion in the other room. Of course, it was him, of course. Great. This was going to turn into one giant hassle.

Gloveless hand pinching the bridge of his nose, Nefarian almost missed the great detective himself enter the room.

“Sorry I’m late.” He said, the door closing behind him. “It was unavoidable I’m afraid.”

Nefarian felt the silence that followed like a physical force, as the six mortal’s brains struggled to figure out what wasn’t quite right about the man in front of them. No doubt the great detective was wearing the wig and sunglasses again, but they never could account for his lack of breathing nor the absurdity of such an outfit in the early days of summer.

Mr Fedgewick recovered the quickest.

“Um, you are Skulduggery Pleasant?”

“At your service,” The detective said in that ridiculously smooth voice of his. Nefarian would have preferred to hear it screaming in pain but, unless things got really out of hand, that wasn’t going to happen.

Sulking against the wall, Nefarian listened on as Beryl asked the obvious.

“Do you have something wrong with your face?”

‘No, dear Beryl,’ Nefarian replied silently. ’Can’t have something wrong with that what you don’t have in the first place.’

Skulduggery, himself, gave no answer to the question. Mr Fedgewick seeing his chance, cleared his throat and launched into the reading of the will.

“OK then, let’s get down to business, now that we’re all here. Excellent. Good. This, of course, being the last will and testament of Gordon Edgley, revised last almost one year ago.”

‘Around the time I tried to talk to him, you mean?’ grumbled Nefarian to himself. Gordon had probably worked this out the day Nefarian had bothered to take the civil approach and ask him for the key to the caves. Typical.

“Gordon has been a client of mine for the past twenty years,” continued Mr Fedgewick, “and in that time, I got to know him well, so let me pass on to you, his family and, and friend, my deepest, deepest- “

“Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted Fergus. “Can we just skip this part? We’re already running behind schedule. Let’s go to the part where we get stuff. Who gets the house? And who gets the villa?”

“Who gets the fortune?” asked his wife.

“The royalties. Who gets the royalties of the books?” said Fergus.

There was a short pause, which Nefarian accounted to the solicitor looking offended at Gordon’s brother’s behaviour.

“To my brother Fergus and his beautiful wife Beryl,” Mr Fedgewick read, “I leave my car and my boat, and a gift.”

A gift?!Wait a second, he couldn’t mean the key, could he? Nefarian pressed his ear harder against the glass as Fergus and Beryl reacted in outrage to what had been left for them. Apparently, Fergus got sea sick, making the boat useless, and they already had a car.

 Oh dear.

What a shame.

What was the gift!?

Squirming on the other side of the wall, Nefarian nearly cheered when Beryl’s voice, low and threatening, said to the unfortunate Mr Fedgewick.

“This gift, is it the fortune?”

There was a scraping of a draw opening and closing.

“What is it?” Fergus said, “Is it a key to a safety deposit box? Is it, is it an account number? Is it, what is it? Wife, what is it?”

Beryl voice came out strangled.

“It doesn’t even have any jewels on it.”

Nefarian glared at the wall, wishing deeply he could see through it. What was the point in listening in on the reading of a will, if you couldn’t tell what everyone was getting?

“What else do we get?”, Fergus asked, panicking.

“Your, uh, your brother’s love?”

There was a high-pitched whine that probably came from Beryl, as Mr Fedgewick moved on with the will-reading.

“To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant I leave- “

‘Here we go. He’d get the house and then my plans will be doomed,’ thought Nefarian gloomily.

“-the following advice.”

What? Pulling a face, Nefarian curled in closer to the wall.

“Your path is your own, and I have no way to sway you, but sometimes the greatest enemy we face can be ourselves, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbour is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.”

He wasn’t getting the house? Nefarian stared at the floor as there was a very puzzled quiet after the cryptic advice.

As expected Fergus was the one to break it.

“See, Beryl? A car, a boat, a brooch, it’s not bad. He could have given us some stupid advice.”

Oh, the gift had been just a brooch. Melting with disappointment, the eavesdropper flinched away from the wall when Beryl yelled “Oh, shut up, would you?” back at her husband.

Mr Fedgewick read on. “To my other brother, Desmond, the lucky one of the family, I leave to you your wife. I think you might like her. So now that you’ve successfully stolen my girlfriend, maybe you’d like to take her to my villa in France, which I am also leaving to you.”

The moment the solicitor paused to breathe, Beryl was up in arms, claiming it was unfair of them to get the villa and was trying to swap. Being talked down by her husband and with a final cold ‘Thank you’ from Mr Fedgewick, things return to order. Nefarian rolled his eyes at them all, picking a piece of lint off his rather expensive suit.

“If there is one regret that I have had in my life, it is that I have never fathered any children. There are times when I look at what Fergus and Beryl have produced and I consider myself fortunate, but there are times when it breaks my heart. And so, finally, to my niece Stephanie.”

Stephanie? He must be on about Desmond’s daughter.

“Make your parents proud, and make them glad to have you living under their roof, because I leave to you my property and possessions, my assets and my royalties, to be inherited on the day you turn eighteen. I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, in my own way, I love you all, even those I don’t particularly like. That’s you, Beryl.”

The room next door exploded into chaos and the detective quickly excused himself and left. Nefarian couldn’t care less. With a massive grin stretched across his face, he fell bonelessly to the floor. The only person standing in the way of his plans was some little girl that would barely ever be in the house anyway. Waiting till after he was sure the Edgleys’ had left the building, Nefarian pulled out his phone. Dialling in the number he practically sang down the line when it picked up.

 “Mr Leather. Are you free tonight? “

“Yes, master!” came the enthusiastic reply.

“Excellent. I need you to wait outside Grimwood House; some mortals are going to come visit this afternoon. Once they have left the house, I’d like you to break in and search the place for two things. An entrance to the tunnels and the key to opening it.”

“I can do that, master! You can count on me!”

“Wonderful. Call me when you find them.”

 Giggling on the floor, Nefarian hung up and sighed with relief. Maybe Gordon’s death hadn’t screwed up everything after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the fic, pleast leave me a comment.  
> Any on how to improve are particularlly welcome.


End file.
